Mind Over Matter
by sherlock21b
Summary: The mutant telepathic attack on the world's population in XMen: United has some unusual repercussions at PrincetonPlainsboro. House and Xmen crossover.
1. Chapter 1

**Mind Over Matter**

**By:** Npkedit  
**Beta: **Minisinoo  
**Rating: **A slight bit of profanity, but not much else.  
**Fandom:** House MD/X-Men  
**Word Count: **18,335  
**Pairings:** None  
**Warnings:** Story contains spoilers up to "No Reason" in _House_ and for the first two X-Men films, especially _X-Men 2_.  
**Summary:** The mutant telepathic attack on the world's population in X-Men: United has some unusual repercussions at Princeton-Plainsboro.

**Author Notes: **I took prompt 94 (AU: Chase wakes up with magical powers. And no, he can't suddenly heal- that would be cheating). The subject of the prompt was magic, but in order to give the piece as much of a sense of realism as I could in this sort of medium (coupled with the fact that I've been an X-Men fan since I was a child), I couldn't resist altering it a bit. So apologies if it's not exactly what you wanted.

Yes, this is a crossover. I've tried to make sure that even those with no knowledge of the X-Men can make heads and tails out of it. If I failed, mea culpa. Truth be told the ratio of X-Men to _House_ tilts decidedly in the latter's favor.

**A few caveats:** As this was written between the second and third seasons of _House_ and I had no clue what TPTB would do with House post-shooting, this fic presumes that "No Reason" didn't happen. And because the word "loathe" would not be too strong to sum up my reaction to what TPTB did to the X-men in that travesty of a third film, _X-3_ never happened either.

Finally, thanks and much licorice (Danish!) to my brilliant editor, Minisinoo (who finally got to return the favor); to Mara, for the X-advice; to my brother for the proof; and to Rychki for making sure I didn't screw up all things Aussie.

**Disclaimer: **Alas, none of the characters are mine. I'm just temporarily playing in PPTH's and the X-Men's playground. All medical errrors (and hopefully there are none) are my own.

Feedback, as always, is relished.


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: For disclaimers and other vital tidbits, see the Intro.**

**Part 1**

The first thing Robert Chase became aware of when his brain flirted with consciousness was the familiar odor of disinfectant. Next came the too-loud echoes of beeping monitors, followed by not-too-distant voices issuing orders and the sounds of people in distress. And, moving gingerly, he could feel items attached to various portions of his body, including an IV and—he was loathe to discover—a Foley catheter. Taking that evidence into consideration, Chase could only conclude he was in a hospital. But when he tried to open his eyes to verify this deduction he joined in the chorus of misery as a blinding flash of light flooded his field of vision, the _Anvil Chorus_ began to pound on his brain, and he suddenly tasted bile.

Snapping his eyes shut, he turned his head sideways as the meager contents of his stomach made a quick escape, the vomiting making his head only hurt worse. He heard a panicked "Doctor!" as his stomach continued to rebel, and then suddenly felt supportive hands on his back and head and something shoved beneath his face.

"Chase, just try and relax." Both the voice and the hands on his back were familiar. Allison Cameron. She sounded relieved, which, as he continued to retch, he found mildly bizarre. But then he'd never thought Cameron's behavior could be labeled "easy to comprehend."

It took a few more minutes—though it felt like an eternity—before the heaving finally stopped. Then Cameron relinquished her hold on him and a cup of water was pressed into his hands.

"Bin's still in front of you. Go ahead and rinse your mouth out."

Tired, weak, and desperate to get rid of the acrid taste in his mouth, he obeyed orders. He surrendered the cup when he was done, and then his colleague was guiding his head back down to the bed. The sound of a mop was followed by footsteps leaving the room and Chase blushed, embarrassed he'd been sick.

"Chase can you open your eyes?"

He wasn't entirely sure that was a good idea. Some of his headache had dissipated with the nausea, but a good portion of it was still there. And he felt…odd.

"No light," he protested hoarsely, his throat raw from the vomiting. "Unless you want a repeat performance."

"Never liked re-runs," Cameron quipped, and then Chase heard her ask someone to dim the lights as he felt the head of his bed being raised.

"Okay, try and open your eyes now," Cameron told him a moment later.

He cracked a lid for a moment to make sure it was safe, then slowly opened his eyes. There was still plenty of light, but it no longer felt like his brain was being seared. When his surroundings swam back into focus, he recognized the ER—incredibly busy—where he was hooked up to an array of equipment. And Cameron was staring at him.

"How…what happened?" he asked her, confused.

"You don't remember?" Cameron appeared concerned but unsurprised.

Chase began to shake his head in the negative, then thought better of it and uttered a simple "no."

Cameron opened up her mouth to speak, but couldn't get out a word before Chase heard a "You're awake!" come from the opposite side of the room. He swiveled his head to see Eric Foreman stride into his room, but regretted the movement and had to put a hand down to steady himself when a new wave of dizziness swept through him.

Both Foreman and Cameron moved to support him before he keeled over. And much as he loathed the need for assistance, Chase guessed it was better than throwing up again.

"Let's try not to do anything too stupid right now," Foreman admonished. "House has already warned us that if we can't put Humpty Dumpty back together again and he has to go through interviews, he's going to sic all of the King's Horses on us."

Chase would've rolled his eyes if he'd had the energy. "I'm moved by the sympathy."

"He was actually pretty worried, even if he'd never admit it. We all were," Cameron tossed in. "You've been out cold for nearly fourteen hours."

Fourteen hours? Chase racked his aching brain to figure out what he'd done to land himself in the ER and came up with one giant blank. "What happened?"

"What's the last thing you remember?" Foreman countered.

"I moved Mrs. Sulser"—their current patient, who was on the road to recovery after a bout with Q Fever—"out of the ICU and then I got stat-paged to sit in on a surgery. I went to change and scrub in, and…"

"And," Cameron prompted.

Closing his eyes, Chase tried desperately to remember, but could only vaguely recall standing in scrubs in the locker room. "I can't…I don't know," he said, opening his eyes after a moment.

He saw Cameron and Foreman exchange a brief look, observed the way-too-active ER, and once again demanded, "What happened?"

"A surgical resident found you out cold on the locker room floor," Foreman told him. "How you ended up that way, we could only guess, based on what went on everywhere else. But I'd bet a paycheck that you collapsed from a seizure, probably hit your head on something on the way down, and ended up with one hell of a concussion. You got a nice-sized lump on the back of you head."

Chase's hand flew up to his head at that and he winced as he encountered a tender spot that would certainly account for his short-term memory loss. And then he managed to focus on what he'd just been told. "A seizure?"

"World's biggest collective migraine might be a better way of putting it," Foreman observed, rubbing his own temple. "Trust me, you weren't the only one. Pretty much everyone on the _planet _went along for the ride. Yours lasted a little longer than most."

"You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time," Cameron added.

"Story of my life," Chase muttered, though he was more confused than ever.

"Look, even if we could explain everything, you'd have trouble swallowing it," Foreman claimed. "So let's say I give you your first neuro and then we do show and tell."

"I'm fine," Chase responded reflexively.

"Yeah, and House just won Mr. Congeniality," Foreman retorted. "You were unconscious for fourteen hours, and your EEG readings were all over the map for more than 7 of them."

That, Chase recognized, was _not_ good. "Scans?"

"A concussion, but otherwise clean," Cameron told him in a manner clearly meant to reassure. "So was the C-spine. But considering what just happened, it's probably a good bet that you have post-concussion syndrome, which means…"

"…you're stuck here until I clear you," Foreman finished.

Chase wanted to protest, but then realized how futile it would be. "Fine," he said with unquestionably bad grace. His head still hurt, he still felt very much in the dark about what happened, and he was very tired. "Let's just get it over with then."

The next few minutes flew by as Foreman ran him through a standard neuro check. Only one hiccup occurred in the procedure when Foremanflashed a penlight in his eyes to check his pupils. Chase recoiled almost immediately, and was relieved when the light blew out and refused to function when Foreman tried it again.

"I just changed the damn battery," Foreman muttered as he shook the offending instrument.

"Guess the bunny's on strike."

Chase looked up to find Gregory House standing just inside the room and leaning heavily on his cane. Chase thought his boss looked like shit and wondered when he'd last taken his Vicodin. Then he wondered if House might be willing to share—he'd made it through most of the neuro test, but his head still hurt terribly.

"He pass?" House asked Foreman.

"Aside from his balance still being off, photosensitivity, nausea, and what I'm guessing is a killer headache, yeah, he's ready to go."

"I'm sensing some sarcasm."

"I'm fine." Chase protested weakly; the vomiting had taken a lot out of him and he was still feeling dizzy. "All I need is some Tylenol and a little sleep."

"Well then, the good news for you is that you're already in a bed, and I'm pretty sure we have some Tylenol around," House told him. "And we're a full-service property—you get two-hour wake-up calls free of charge, and I'll even throw in an ice pack."

And then, before Chase could even think to argue, House turned to Cameron and Foreman and told them, "Move him to a regular room. Our beauty contestant has won a 24-hour stay at beautiful Princeton-Plainsboro with you two as chaperones to keep all those needy nurses from taking advantage. If, at the end of that time, he's passed _all_ his neuro checks, kept the admittedly depressing cuisine here down, and managed another clean EEG, I might allow him out on the town."

"But should he _try_ to jump ship before those 24 hours are up," House added pointedly as he moved to leave, "Doctor Cameron will personally tie him to his hospital bed. I'm sure that'll bring back some good memories. Or maybe it was the other way around?"

If House registered Cameron's squeak of protest or Foreman's eye roll—and Chase doubted that—as he departed, he gave no sign of it. Chase merely sighed in resignation. He was pragmatic enough to know that defying House would result in more pain and humiliation than he'd already suffered. And contrary to what his boss seemed to think, he wasn't a masochist.

"I don't suppose I could get those meds," he asked meekly when the silence seemed to stretch forever. With any luck, his headache would die down and he'd be able to get in an hour or so of sleep before his next neuro exam.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Note:**_ See the intro for vital info, disclaimers, and other cool things.

**Part 2**

… _many government officials believe the casualty totals will eventually be counted in the millions for what some are privately calling a telepathic attack on the world's population. Many hospitals, both here and around the globe, were completely overwhelmed by the sheer number of patients they received just hours after the incident and-_

**Click**.

_"This a moment in which we can all work together for a better future for all of humanity, mutant and non-mutant. And so, in the face of this tragedy, I ask you my fellow Americans-" _

**Click**.

_The N.T.S.B is still refusing to release final totals, but CNN has confirmed that at least 38 planes, including 26 fully-loaded passenger jets either crashed or were forced to make emergency landings in the U.S. alone. And if the skies were unfriendly, the roads fared even worse. The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration is still tallying accident figures, but spokesman Carol Chen told us 5/22 will almost certainly set records for accidents on the country's roads._

**Click**.

_In an unusual mark of cooperation, all of the world's major financial markets are closed today, though many are expected to reopen tomorrow- _

**Click**.

_In related news, authorities still have no leads on Erik Lensherr, the mutant terrorist who escaped from a maximum-security detention facility several days ago. Several sources have speculated that he may have had a hand in yesterday's attacks--_

**Click**.

…_the Iranian president claims 5/22 was a Zionist plot designed to wipe out Muslims-_

**Click.**

_Several high-level congressional sources, including Senator Robert Kelly, tell ABC News that U.S. intelligence has gathered credible proof that 5/22 was carried out by an anti-mutant faction using a kidnapped telepath to wipe out the world's mutant population. Though the assault did originally target mutants, it appears that something went awry and the attack subsequently affected non-mutant humans as well. The White House is refusing to comment on what it calls an 'ongoing investigation,' but as the casualty totals and the demand for answers grows, congressional staffers tell us that the president may call a press conference as soon as this evening to announce arrests of some of those behind this tragedy. This is Trish Trilby, ABC News, Capitol Hill. _

**Click**.

Chase switched channels for the umpteenth time. Cameron had told him during a pre-dawn neuro check about the events that had transpired the day before, but he hadn't really believed her until he'd caught the news that morning. It was bad enough that people were blowing each other to bits with guns, he thought as he watched two ostensibly well-educated morons debate mutant registration on the TV—now they were doing it with their bloody minds. He wondered what the actual truth of the matter was, but doubted that it would ever make the airwaves.

Turning off the TV, Chase stretched sore muscles as he waited for Foreman to arrive for his final neuro check. Twenty-four hours on the opposite end of the stethoscope had Chase convinced that hospitals were miserable, despicable, dens of torture when one was a patient. He'd been poked, prodded, scanned, tested, and woken up when all he wanted to do was sleep. And he was committed to erasing the miserable catheter-removal experience permanently from his memory.

As if all that weren't enough, his colleagues had all turned into mother hens—especially Cameron—and were driving him crazy. Watching the news, he knew he'd been lucky to suffer only a concussion, but that didn't make it any easier to take in the short run.

"No restraints, huh? Bummer."

Chase groaned inwardly—of course House wouldn't miss out on an opportunity to torture him before he sent him off.

"Can we just get this over with," he snapped as he eyed his intruding boss. His headache was mostly gone and the nausea had blessedly disappeared, but he still felt a bit jittery. All Chase wanted was a week of sleep in his own bed. And something that didn't taste like cement mixed with slime.

"Well aren't we a barrel of fun in bed. Maybe I should keep you there a little longer. Irritability is a bad sign and all. "

Chase would've been more worried if he hadn't known it an empty threat. His neuro checks for the previous 12 hours had all been fine, and his latest EEG came back normal. There was no way in hell Cuddy would let House take up a bed for his own personal amusement when the hospital was brimming with patients. A couple of the ICU nurses he often worked with had stopped by a few hours before, and they'd been more than happy to give him the lowdown on the previous 24 hours at Princeton-Plainsboro—that he'd gotten a room had been a miracle.

"If that were true, _you'd_ be chained to the ICU," Chase responded.

"No gratitude. I even threw in that icepack."

"Did wonders. Where's the neurologist for my neuro exam?"

"A janitor can do a neuro check on a concussion. And your EEG has gone back to the normal and singularly uninteresting category. Foreman was getting too tired to torment properly, so I had to let him go home. Besides, Cuddy's been sniping about my billables and patient relations—killing two birds with one stone."

"I'm sure you'll love the patient review," Chase told him, the thought of getting to grade House on his bedside manner cheering him up a bit.

"I'm sure it'll be as good as your own in…what is it?…a couple of months?" Chase swallowed hard and reconsidered his opportunity for revenge.

"I'm sure," he agreed, hoisting a white flag of surrender in a desperate bid to get rid of House and get out of the hospital.

House shook his head, clearly disappointed with his easy victory, then plopped himself on the edge of Chase's bed and shot off "candlestick, poison, rope—remember them."

Then he inquired, "Mother's maiden name, president of the United States, today's date?"

"Fairfax, McKenna, May 23."

"Spell 'world' backwards and forwards."

Chase complied. What followed wasn't exactly by the book for a neuro exam—the comparison section of the cognition test definitely didn't require that he compare Foreman to Napoleon—but it was certainly thorough.

"Three words you needed to remember?"

"Poison, rope, and candlestick," Chase replied as the test finally reached its conclusion.

"Well, it appears that you may be safe to let loose upon the world," House admitted. Not only had he passed, Chase was reasonably certain he'd been perfect—much to his own relief. "And the bleeding heart in the Dean of Medicine's office thinks a concussion deserves a 48-hour pass and has ordered me upon pain of the clinic to make sure you depart and don't step foot in the hospital until Monday morning. Though not in a car; you're grounded for the next 24 hours. And you can't do all those other forbidden things you responsible doctors tell your concussion patients."

Chase wasn't too surprised by the restrictions. He wasn't much in the mood to get behind the wheel anyway. With all of the traffic accidents that had occurred the previous day, he was sure the roads were a mess.

Cameron picked that moment to arrive—along with what appeared to be the overnight bag he kept in his locker. "Brought you the stuff from your locker," she announced, looking both tired and chipper at the same time. "You must have forgotten to lock it before the concussion."

"Or Foreman owes you a lock," House added, earning a dirty look from Chase. He had no doubts that House had taken the opportunity to snoop, and felt smug that there wasn't much there to satisfy.

"Saint Allison of the Bleeding Heart can drive you home," House continued gleefully as he stood up to leave. Chase stole a glance at his exhausted co-worker, who seemed surprised, but not very put out. He had planned on calling a cab, but couldn't figure out how to turn down the ride without seeming ungrateful, so he offered her a smile instead.

"I'm afraid he's not up for any bedroom aerobics for the next 24 hours," House called before he headed out into the hallway, " but don't forget to tuck him in." He paused only long enough to savor the twin looks of annoyance on his fellows' faces.

"Royal Melbourne Hospital, records department, Victoria speaking."

"Victoria, this is Doctor Gregory House, Chief of Diagnostic Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital in the U.S. I have a critical patient in my care who we believe has been treated at your hospital. We need access to his and his parents' records in order to fill in his medical history and make sure he doesn't die."

"Can you give me the names?"

"Patient's name is Robert Chase, parents are Rowan and Elizabeth Fairfax Chase."

"The records are in our system, Dr. House" Victoria informed him a minute later. "You'll need to supply authorizations in order for us to release them however."

"Not a problem. Parents are deceased and the patient is completely willing to sign a release."

"Excellent. Do you want copies of all scans as well?"

"Anything and everything you can send us. Dr. Chase is in critical condition."

"Of course. Do you have a pen for the fax number?"

Gregory House smiled as he broke out a pen and paper. In the immediate aftermath of 5/22, the number of challenging cases referred to the Department of Diagnostics had slowed—for him—to an interminably boring level. And as Cuddy had inexcusably deprived him of his fellows in the short term to help handle patient overloads, House had time to indulge his curiosity. Chase's scans on 5/22 had perplexed him; he'd scoured every medical site he knew of—and annoyed more than his usual share of medical practitioners—without finding one similar case. Once he'd decided Chase's reaction merited investigation, sniffing out Chase's local medical files had taken him almost two weeks. Getting his Aussie files was almost too easy.

_To be continued_


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 3**

"Square Pair!"

Chase smiled as his fellow craps players and the surrounding spectators erupted into applause. Obviously, the two "fours" looking up at him from the table were pretty good. He might have been more excited had he actually understood more of what was going on, but the finer points of craps were still eluding him. The cheering throngs kept telling him he was on monster roll, whatever that meant. He wasn't even entirely certain how he'd ended up at the table, much less how he'd ended up the shooter.

That he was even in Atlantic City was something of a miracle. Once he'd recovered from his concussion and gone back to work, the next 6 weeks had been brutal. Politicians were left busy finger pointing in the aftermath of 5/22, but it was the hospitals that were left to clean up the mess, and there were still plenty of patients recovering from injuries suffered on that fateful day. But after what Chase could only assume was either blackmail or some serious Cuddy ass-kissing, House was currently off in Las Vegas for an Infectious Diseases conference (or that was why his boss was supposed to be there). And Cuddy, positively glowing after Princeton-Plainsboro had been named one of the top 100 hospitals in America by _Time _the previous week, had given the Department of Diagnostics a full weekend's break from both boss and hospital. His first full weekend off in he couldn't remember how long, and he'd been mulling how to spend it when two mates had invited him to tag along with them to A.C. Kevin Reynolds—an investment banker with a serious passion for risk—told him he needed to live a little; Matthew Jackson, a mostly risk-averse tax lawyer with a passion for numbers, begged him for assistance in keeping Kevin from losing his shirt.

Neither the betting nor the booze facets of the Jersey Shore had been enough to tempt him. He wasn't much for gambling in smoky and noisy casinos; and getting pissed for the hell of it wasn't his preferred brand of entertainment. But the prospect of spending time at the ocean—even the wrong one—had been too hard to pass up. And so he went—and probably couldn't have written a better prescription for himself. Two days of fun, sun, and waves, and Chase had even consented to flirt with Lady Luck on their final night. He'd been happily up $100 at one of the Taj's blackjack tables when Kevin and Matt had dragged him off to the craps pit. And before Chase knew it, they were all flying high. He'd been up over two grand before they'd handed him the dice, and he hadn't stopped rolling for nearly 30 minutes.

Chase watched as the dealer finally stopped paying out the hordes and the players began throwing more chips onto the table.

"Keep this streak going and I won't have to worry about my bonus for the next couple of years," Matt told him as he started dispersing chips—Chase had long ago ceded control of his own stack to his friend.

"I still don't have a bloody clue about what I'm doing," Chase admitted, wondering how much Wall Street lawyers made in bonuses. They had to be making better money than a fellow's pay.

"Who gives a shit," Kevin declared. "The casino's sweating money by the buckets."

Chase actually managed to translate that one in his head. Craps players used more jargon than doctors did, and he knew patients constantly bitched—often, with good reason—about physicians talking over their heads.

"Right. What do I need?" he asked after a moment. His tutors had long ago abandoned all hope of teaching him the finer points of the game and its lingo. Now they just told him what everyone wanted, and more often than not he delivered—much to his surprise and the joy of everyone else involved, save the casino (which had already checked the dice, twice). Chase could've been offended by his friends' lack of patience, but took solace in the knowledge that they didn't have a clue how to do a tracheotomy or calculate ventilation pressures. You couldn't wager money if you couldn't breathe.

"You'd think he'd have figured it out by now," said Kevin, who was half smashed on the free booze the cocktail waitresses were dispensing at a rapid clip.

"Ignore him," Matt ordered, studying the table. "You get two '5's and you won't need a paycheck for a while, even after the IRS gets through with you."

That got Chase's attention and he looked hard at the large rack of chips in front of him. He hadn't really been paying much attention to his winnings amidst the hullabaloo, allowing Matt to wager for him. After knowing him for two years, Chase had learned that Matt was both scrupulously honest—which amused him—and a shrewd numbers man. After a few beers, it took Chase a minute or two to mentally tally his winnings, but when he did, his eyes widened.

"I won all of that?"

"Hey, hey. No satisfaction or you'll screw with the streak," Kevin protested as the boxman…or was that the stickman?…called for him to roll. "I believe the shyster asked for a ten the hard way."

A ten. Right. Chase concentrated hard on a ten—stupid, he knew; but superstition had taken hold and he refused to deviate from the pattern that had brought him success. He threw the dice and the table held its collective breath as they sailed across the table before hitting the back wall and settling on a pair of fives.

The resulting frenzy forced the pit boss to shut things down for a bit while winnings got calculated, the dice got checked yet again ("As if you'd even know how to cheat," Kevin scoffed), and chips were distributed.

So good had he been to the table that nobody seemed to care a whit when, distracted by the winnings in front of him, Chase crapped out on his next roll. Hell, the pit boss was so thrilled his run had ended, he offered the trio a free dinner at the hotel's best restaurant if they wanted to take a break from the action for a bit. They did.

_To be continued_


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 4**

At first Chase didn't even recognize that life had begun making him lemonade instead of tossing the usual sour lemons at him. He was simply too busy. House had come back rather chipper from his trip—either he'd cleaned up at poker or the hookers in Vegas were better than those in Princeton—and enough interesting cases appeared to keep the department hopping. But, eventually, he couldn't help but notice the little odd bouts of good fortune that kept winging his way. The closet door in his apartment that always jammed before closing properly, now shut without a problem. The leaky faucet that two plumbers couldn't fix mysteriously stopped one night after he'd mentally begged it to do so, and had never resumed its steady beat.

"Maybe Lady Luck followed you home from Atlantic City," he told his reflection as he shaved—right before he nicked himself with the blade. _Or not_.

_One…two…three…breathe. _

_One…two…three…breathe. _

_One…two…pause…flip…one…two…breathe. _

Like all the other doctors at Princeton-Plainsboro, Robert Chase had been offered a discounted recreational membership at Princeton University as a perk of employment at the hospital (and how Cuddy had snagged that privilege nobody knew). Unlike most of the other doctors, he actually took advantage of the deal; if he occasionally spotted a resident in the gym, he'd never seen another physician at the pool. Yet as swimming laps had always been his preferred form of exercise, he certainly hadn't been about to decline ready access to a pool. Besides, the place was usually deserted when it opened—only serious ducks hit the water at 7am in the morning—and Chase liked the quiet. Barring unforeseen patient crises or House issues, he religiously did 100 laps (60 freestyle, 40 backstroke) at least three mornings each week. He'd become so familiar to the sports staff that they'd started calling him "Doc," though a few still had trouble believing he wasn't a grad student.

_One…two…three…breathe. _

_One…two…three…breathe. _

_One…two…pause…flip…one…two…breathe. _

With most students and faculty on summer break, Chase glided through the otherwise empty pool with the easy familiarity of a veteran swimmer, settling into a pattern as familiar to him as any cardiac rhythm. It had taken him only a few weeks to time his morning routine so that he arrived 5 minutes early at the office.

_One…two…three…breathe. _

_One…two…three…breathe. _

_One…two…flip…one…two…breathe. _

He was almost done with his laps when his brain began to wander, running through his schedule for the day. He had clinic duty that morning, which at least meant a respite from House, who'd been driving him to distraction—or more than usual anyway—since his concussion. With luck, the department would get an interesting enough case to ensnare his boss's attention.

He'd finished up and had just emerged from the pool, when Dylan, the lifeguard on duty called out, "Finally stopped popping your head towards the end there, Doc."

"Sorry?" Chase asked as he stretched a bit, now desperate for a shower and caffeine.

"You weren't hitting the brakes before your turns," the lifeguard clarified, clearly amused as he mimed what he was talking about. "Head not popping."

And that, Chase thought, couldn't have been right. He'd known _exactly_ when he was about to hit the wall. Known it to the nth degree with the surety he associated with visual confirmation. And he always got visual confirmation. He'd never been able to resist lifting his head to spot the wall before a turn, no matter how well he knew his location in the water. There was always that momentary slowdown, the fear of a crash. The one time he'd actually given the matter any thought, after coming up just short of a win during a race back in secondary school, he'd decided it was prudence. But deep down he knew it was fear. Fear always came before faith in his experience.

"Shaved more than 3 minutes off your time, too," Dylan added, pointing to the clock on the wall above the pool.

Surprised, Chase checked the clock and was amazed to find that he had indeed done his laps faster than he had since…well, since he could ever remember. He shook his head and chalked it up to chance and long stretches in the pool. He must have become more comfortable in his surroundings than he thought.

"Must be all that coaching from the sidelines," Chase joked as he toweled off and Dylan laughed. The early morning hours were conducive only to a few words of small talk and not much more. In truth, Chase knew that once the lifeguard had verified he knew what he was doing in a pool, the junior often spent the morning studying, only spot-checking the pool long enough to learn his swimmers' habits and keep an eye on things.

"Have a good day, Doc," Dylan told him from his perch above the pool before putting his nose back into what looked to be an anthropology textbook.

"You too, mate," Chase replied with a smile before heading off to the locker room, mentally allowing himself two extra minutes in the shower as a reward for the early finish.

Chase walked out of Exam Room 2, once again astonished by the level of creativity human beings used in devising new ways to damage themselves. He'd just made it over the threshold, when Karen Wechsler, one of the clinic's nurses, thrust yet another file into his hand. The clinic had been hopping since he'd arrived that morning and there didn't seem to be an end in sight.

"Please tell me this is bronchitis."

"Baseball."

"Swallowed one?" He didn't think that possible, but he'd already pulled a fork out of someone's esophagus that morning, so one never knew. He was actually hoping for something a bit more normal.

"Hit by a ball. Nice kid. Mom's a worrywart. Exam 1."

Chase smiled—anxious mothers didn't bother him in the least—as he handed Wechsler the file for the patient he'd just seen and watched her walk off. He took a quick look at the chart he'd been given, then walked into Examination Room 1, where, sure enough, a woman and a boy who clearly resembled her were waiting for him.

"Good morning Mrs. Pasquarello, I'm Dr. Chase," he said, nodding to the woman before shutting the door and turning his attention to the boy on the exam table. "Domingo—right?"

The boy sitting on the exam table nodded.

"Okay. Why don't you tell me what happened?"

"He got plunked with a baseball," the boy's mother piped up from behind him. "Yesterday!"

"Mom, it was a stupid wild pitch at practice, not even a game. Ricky wasn't even throwing at full speed. No big deal." Domingo Pasquarello, 10-year-old Little Leaguer, was obviously aggrieved at his mother's anxiety. And he didn't appear to be too enthusiastic that he was in the clinic in the first place.

"If it was no big deal, you wouldn't be breathing like your asthmatic grandmother and your chest wouldn't look like a post-modern painting."

"So you got hit by a baseball in the ribs?" Chase said, trying to establish some order. "And we're having a little trouble breathing?"

Domingo nodded.

"Hear anything crack or pop when you were hit?"

"Nope."

"Any dizziness or pressure in your chest?"

"Nope," Domingo told him, shaking his head. "Coach made me sit out the rest of practice though."

"Coach is a smart guy," Chase replied with a smile. "Ok, then. Let's have a look. Can you take your shirt off for me?"

"It really doesn't hurt too much." Domingo was clearly trying to sound convincing, but winced as he gingerly took off his shirt.

"You'll say anything to be able to play tomorrow," his worried mother countered as Chase studied the rather large amount of bruising spread across the right side of the boy's rib cage. "You didn't even tell me when you came home; I had to hear it from Freddy!"

Chase, whose only experience with baseball was via a weed-smoking Major Leaguer with cadmium poisoning, nevertheless could guess at the importance of the impending competition.

"Big game?" he asked with a smile as he started palpating Domingo's ribs.

"We're playing Ershow," the boy told him excitedly, as if that explanation was all that was needed, but then added, "we win, we take the division."

"Right," Chase replied with a nod as he got out his stethoscope. The child's ribs felt a little tender, though otherwise ok on palpation, but Chase couldn't shake the almost tangible sensation that something wasn't quite right. "Take a couple of deep breaths for me, but don't force it if you can't."

Domingo complied, his breathing somewhat rapid and shallow—but that was understandable. Chase wouldn't have been too eager to move damaged ribs either; as a child he'd once been hit by an errant bowler in a cricket match and he hadn't been too happy about breathing for the next week. Of course, that hadn't stopped him from playing the rest of the match. Domingo's lungs sounded ok, but a frowning Chase still sensed that something was moving where it shouldn't be.

"When you say it doesn't hurt too much—is the pain more like you feel sore, or is it sharp, like you hit yourself on something?

The boy considered that for a moment. "Mostly sore, I guess."

"Mostly?"

"It's a little worse every now and then, mostly when I breathe in," he admitted grudgingly.

"Well, it doesn't feel as if anything's broken," he told Domingo slowly, before turning to face Mrs. Pasquarello. "But given the amount of edema—that's the swelling you're seeing around his ribs—and the discomfort, I'm going to order some chest x-rays."

"Is there something wrong?" she asked anxiously, noticing his expression.

"No reason to get alarmed," Chase immediately reassured her. "It could just be standard bruising, or it might be a cracked rib. I think it's better to be safe rather than sorry."

He'd learned his lesson the hard way with Kayla, a patient he'd lost the previous year after failing to diagnose her ulcer, and had no intention of screwing up again.

"I can still play tomorrow, though, right?"

"_If_ you have a cracked rib, then I'm afraid you're going to have to cheer from the stands." The boy looked crushed, but his mother looked relieved at the pronouncement. "But let's wait for the x-rays to come back before making any decisions, ok?"

As he left his rather dejected patient to order the chest films, Chase couldn't help but hope that stupid feeling of his was wrong—even as he _knew_ it wasn't.

"He's ten. Ten-year-olds can't sit still for five seconds—probably moved during the x-ray."

"It's not a shadow or an echo or whatever," Chase insisted. The radiologist's report for Domingo Pasquarello had come back marked "inconclusive," because of what looked like a smudge near the child's fifth rib. Chase had correctly interpreted that as "I don't have a clue, so I'm dumping the problem on you," and summoned the clinic's assigned orthopedist, Michael Riley, who wasn't being much help either.

"If it looks like a shadow, and he's not showing signs for anything else, then the odds are he either moved or the technician screwed up. You do what you want; I'd tell him to go play ball."

As Riley strode off, Chase looked up at the ceiling as if begging for divine intervention, though, as usual, none was forthcoming. He wasn't entirely sure why he was so positive that the other physicians were wrong, but no matter what they told him, Chase still felt something was rotten in his Little Leaguer.

Grabbing the x-rays off the light box, he headed back to the exam room where the Pasquarellos waited to inform them that Domingo would need a chest CT.

"Bone splinter?" The chest CT had provided a far clearer picture of Domingo Pasquarello's chest, and Chase's forebodings had been vindicated by a very small, but sharp looking object that clearly didn't belong where it was sitting.

"Looks like. Though the odds of that happening, and the splinter sitting right behind the rib are…insane." Riley, the orthopedist who'd summarily dismissed his concerns before, was now studying the CT films with extraordinary interest. "Kid should've played the lottery."

"Yeah, well he isn't going to be too happy to hear he won't be playing anymore baseball this summer."

"Better no baseball than a hole in his lung. That thing's probably been moving around in there and it's only a matter of time before it pokes where it shouldn't. He's lucky you're stubborn."

_You mean **you're** lucky I'm stubborn_, Chase thought, even as he felt relieved that they'd caught the problem before it had developed into something much worse.

"I'll schedule him for surgery," Riley announced, breaking into his reverie. "Kosov should be able to get him in this afternoon."

"I'll go break the news."

Domingo was predictably upset, but Mrs. Pasquarello, much to Chase's amusement, actually took the news that her son would need surgery quite well, seemingly relieved they'd actually found something wrong and that he wouldn't be playing ball the next day.

And so Chase was feeling rather upbeat when he signed out of the clinic. He'd barely made it out the door when he got a page from the hospital's records department. Puzzled, he called in, wondering what on earth they wanted with him; he was pretty sure he was caught up on all of his charts. Two minutes after getting on the phone with one of the records clerks, he felt as if he'd taken a fastball in the chest himself, moving from happy to livid in the space of seconds.

_I'm going to kill him._

_To be continued_


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 5**

"What the hell is this?"

Ordinarily House would have been irked being disturbed during the sacred hour when he worshipped at the church of _General Hospital_. But as he looked up at the intruder in his office, the expression on Chase's face indicated there might be something even more entertaining on the horizon, so he allowed Chase's indiscretion to pass without immediate retribution.

"Jason's about to catch Sonny…" he deadpanned, before trailing off and feigning sudden comprehension. "Oh, you mean that thing you're holding? I'm pretty sure it's called a file. Or do you blondes have another word for it?"

"A _personal_ medical file," Chase told him angrily. "One I kept someplace other than this hospital. One that strangely ended up in our medical records system anyway."

_Busted_. _Time for a diversion. _

"Very inconvenient that," House chided him. "It took me 11 phone calls to find it when you were admitted, and then medical records—well, those guys aren't going to be making any delivery guarantees anytime soon."

"The request was signed two weeks _after_ my concussion. And you told them I was dying."

_Damn, and he did his homework, too._ Well, House thought, at the very least his fellow was proving himself thorough.

"And even if you weren't full of shit about my file, wanna tell me how my parents' files ended up in medical records, too?"

"Your parents' charts were actually the hard part," House answered nonchalantly. Actually, Chase's mother's records had been the problem; he'd had no trouble appropriating the one Rowan had left with Wilson. Mama Chase had turned out to be one very serious dipsomaniac. "Seems they have this bizarre rule about patient confidentiality."

"Yeah, and they also have this thing about a relative signing permission for them. Funny that. I signed the release forms to have them sent here without actually writing a word."

House said nothing. All those idiots on police dramas who opened their mouths always got into trouble, after all.

"Why?"

Chase would, House supposed, probably calm down if he told him he'd been intrigued by Chase's reaction to the events of 5/22. Even after scouring journals and websites, he'd found absolutely no mention of any other patient whose brain waves had gone berserk like his intensivist's had in the hours after the attack. Plus he'd been interested in Chase's unusually interesting diagnoses in the last couple of weeks, coupled with a rather exaggerated sense of spatial awareness—House hadn't been able to sneak up on his favorite target in weeks. Confessing might save him from Chase running to Cuddy, which would inevitably result in his being sentenced to even more time consorting with the masses in Purgatory. But the files had made both entertaining and enlightening reading beyond the scope of his original interests. And what fun was there in the truth?

"I was curious."

"You lied, then forged my signature to get my medical records and my parents' so you could go fishing?" His tone was a mixture of anger and incredulity that House found amusing. No matter how many buttons he'd pushed, Chase had never truly blown up at him before. But then Chase had a thing for personal privacy and was the most unpredictable of his pets—and thus, in many ways, the most entertaining.

"It was more exaggeration than lie," House pointed out helpfully.

"Aside from the fact that it had zero to do with my parents, that I wasn't dying, and that it was two bloody weeks after the incident you—"

A loud bang interrupted Chase's tirade, to House's disappointment. He turned his neck to see an immense crack radiating outward from the center of his office's window, before the whole pane gave up and collapsed, falling out to the ground below. A loud crash announced the glass's destruction.

For a moment, there was complete and utter silence. Then House turned slowly back to face a now speechless Chase.

"And I always thought it would be Cuddy's voice that would shatter glass."

_To be continued_


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 6**

Chase flawlessly played through Dukas' _Sorcerer's Apprentice_ along with his stereo system. If he'd hated the violin lessons his father had insisted he take as a child, he'd come to appreciate the skill as an adult—it kept his manual dexterity in tune for the surgical procedures he was often called on to perform. And he had no complaints about the violin he was playing—a $10,000 Georges Cunault apology from his dad for missing the one stupid recital he'd ever played. He'd been tempted at the time to smash it into his bedroom wall, but couldn't bring himself to destroy a masterpiece that probably made him sound better than he actually was. Though he never played it in public, unwilling to give his father the satisfaction, playing it had ironically become one of the few sources of peace of mind that Chase could count on when he needed to escape the universe. He'd been playing quite a lot since he'd started working for House.

But House wasn't actually to blame for his current downbeat mood; a shorthanded ICU was. With no Diagnostic patients on the horizon, Cuddy hadn't hesitated to send him into the trenches, and it had been one hellish day—including two terminals, one patient with advanced COPD, one with ARDS, and two post-surgicals with lousy vitals.

As if that weren't enough, he'd arrived home to a rather unhappy message from his maternal grandmother, inasmuch as a blue-blooded grande dame could sound snippy, about his "unfortunate lack of communication skills"—loosely translated as "I deserve a phone call or a visit." This deficiency, she'd asserted, could undoubtedly be chalked up to his "late"—he could almost hear the unspoken "unlamented"—"father, who'd never been properly social or able to admit his shortcomings."

He'd smiled bitterly at that assessment. His father had recognized his mother's problems and walked out on them both; his mother's family had simply swept the issue under some Persian rug. He loved his grandparents, but often believed his mother's family's crest should have been an ostrich.

After making a mental note to call her—a trip back home was out of the question for the foreseeable future—he'd headed straight for his violin.

He was halfway through the third movement of Vivaldi's _Concerto in F minor_ when his stomach loudly informed him that music might soothe a lot of things, but not hunger pangs. A good deal more relaxed, he set aside the violin to pad into the kitchen of his small apartment, intent upon eating. He wasn't in the mood to cook, an activity he'd never been fond of, and like too many other skills he'd picked up as a teen, one he'd learned out of sheer necessity. Thankfully, he had relatively simple tastes and always kept some emergency meals in the freezer for days when he came home late and couldn't face a stove.

At least, he thought as he selected chicken and pasta, he'd managed to avoid House for most of the day. Considering how peeved House had been after he'd been punished with extra clinic duty for his file snooping, Chase considered the time away from a very testy boss a heavenly gift.

Dumping his dinner on a plate, he shoved it into the microwave to warm, then got a mug out of a cabinet and set a kettle to boil for some herbal tea. After the day he'd had, his bloodstream was likely half caffeine and he didn't need to add fuel to the fire.

He was halfway through his dinner by the time his tea had steeped properly, and he reached for the honey he always kept on the counter—he drank his tea obscenely sweet—only to remember he'd finished it the day before. Setting the steaming mug on the kitchen counter, he began rummaging through his cabinets for a new jar, but as he opened the cabinet nearest him, he accidentally elbowed the cup he'd placed too close to the edge of the counter, sending it and its contents flying.

"Bugger!" Like so many others who'd committed a similar error, he mentally urged the mug to stop and return to the counter as he watched it sail towards the floor, seemingly in slow motion. It didn't. But, much to its owner's surprise, it also failed to crash. Instead, it halted mid-drop, hovering just above the kitchen's now-stained tiled floor. Chase froze in almost sympathetic shock, his eyes locked on the floating object.

_I'm asleep and I'm dreaming_.

But dreams didn't smell vividly of green tea and mint—not his, anyway. No, the ones he remembered usually stank of gin and tonic, carrying the bitter scent of failure.

He closed his eyes, then immediately reopened them to find that the floating mug hadn't moved.

_Okay. Not dreaming_..

After a moment's hesitation, he reached out to take the cup, but jerked back when it headed towards him seemingly of its own volition. The mug stopped moving almost immediately, but remained suspended mid-air.

" _Ave Maria, gratia plena Dominus tecum; Benedicta tu in mulieribus_…." The words—spoken in earnest as he crossed himself reflexively—were as familiar to him as any medical procedure, though he hadn't uttered them in ages. Not that he'd admit to anyway.

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't logical. It wasn't…normal. But his life had never been normal, had it? And deep down, some corner of his mind—one he'd been ignoring for weeks—kept telling him his eyes weren't deceiving him. Chase could feel the solid shape of the cup with his brain, even without laying a hand on it.

Slowly, almost unwillingly, he extended his arm in the direction of floating object and mentally urged it to his hand. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry when it moved immediately to him like a dog returning to its master.

Forty-minutes and two exploding light bulbs (only one of them intentional) later, half the contents of his kitchen cabinets surrounded him on the tea-splattered floor, though he'd never laid a finger on any of them. And there was little doubt in his mind that many of the events of the past couple of months that he'd been so willing to chalk up to a lucky streak, had zero to do with good fortune.

_What am I going to do?_

An hour spent contemplating the question—and cleaning up his kitchen in a far more conventional manner than it had been disordered—brought no particular enlightenment. The obvious answer was impossible—simply couldn't be true. He was just short of 30, not 13. And, he readily admitted to himself, he didn't want it to be true. But the evidence in front of him couldn't lie.

_Everybody lies_, said a little voice inside his head, sounding way too much like his boss. And thoughts of House gave Chase a possible solution that both satisfied and horrified him.

He didn't get much sleep that night.

_To be continued_


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 7**

Chase steeled himself before opening the door to Exam 1. If he'd been able to think up any other course of action than the one he'd settled on in the early hours of the morning, he'd have gone with it. House could be as unpredictable as his mother had been, and Chase hadn't felt so nervous since the day he'd gone to Confession after taking Michelle Latting's virginity in the back of his dad's BMW (though he still didn't feel the least bit guilty about swiping the car without permission that fateful evening).

He wasn't surprised to find House alone and communing with his Game Boy, who, when he finally deigned to look up, appeared more peeved than surprised at his entrance.

"I need a consult," Chase announced as he shut the door behind him.

"Interesting, seeing as we have no patients," House observed before returning his attention to his Game Boy. "And that you're the reason I was exiled to this dungeon."

"Which has a dragon," Chase observed wryly, side-stepping the medical file issue. "You know Brenda's ratting you out to anyone who'll ask and it's only a matter of time before Cuddy figures out you haven't actually seen a patient all morning."

"Time better spent kicking Mario's butt than yours."

Chase sighed, gathering his thoughts. House wasn't going to make this easy. House never made anything easy. And getting angry again might mean another cracked window—or worse. That realization alone put things into perspective.

"I…I have a…problem," he finally confessed, his body language screaming his reluctance to admit even that much.

"Hire the A-Team," House quipped.

"What?"

"No appreciation for the classics," House said with a shake of his head. "You Brits need to get out more. More violence, less Spice Girls."

"I'm Australian. And I'm serious."

"Has Cameron been propositioning you again?" House asked, looking up, seemingly interested. "An approval-seeking people-pleaser who has serious issues with mommy, daddy, and the Holy Spirit is right up her alley."

"She prefers sarcastic egomaniacs with delusions of godhood," Chase shot back, refusing to acknowledge the truths in House's assessment. Chase wondered how a man so brilliant could be such a bloody bastard; there were moments when House reminded him rather uncomfortably of his own father.

"As I recall, I tied the Good Lord when last we went head to head—and I got gypped."

Frustrated but unsurprised by House's sarcasm, Chase decided that beating around the bush was getting him nowhere. It wasn't as if House didn't appreciate bluntness; the man made it an art form. So, as he'd…willed…his teacup not to crash the night before, he similarly summoned the electronic game his boss was playing. The Game Boy shot out of House's grip, across the room, and into his own hands.

For his part, House stared at his empty hands a moment, then let his gaze drift upward —his only immediate reaction a raised eyebrow. Then he followed up with, "Been brushing up on your sleight-of-hand?"

Chase sighed, then sent the Game Boy back to House, suspending it just above his boss'shand.

"It started a couple of weeks after my concussion," Chase admitted as he watched House inspect the hovering toy before it began to wobble in mid-air—his conscious control over his…ability was a little haphazard. House rescued the device before it could fall to the ground. "I think. Stuff I thought was coincidence or plain dumb luck… All I do know is that it's getting worse. I think I blew out your window. And I'm scared I'm going to hurt someone or you can bet your bloody Game Boy that I wouldn't be in here right now."

The subsequent silence threatened to stretch for eternity as House stared at his toy, then moved to pocket it and looked up, his expression smug.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Chase wasn't sure whether to be relieved or afraid.

"You have a problem."

Chase waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. "That's it?"

"Would you prefer I tell you to get a light saber and start quoting pithy aphorisms in Muppet voices?" House inquired wryly. "Young Jedi, you have so many important things to learn. Like how to properly manipulate one's employer—way cooler than endangering my playthings, and less likely to result in harm to that perfect little head of hair."

"I don't want to harm anything," Chase said fervently. He'd gone to House out of desperation, but now wasn't entirely certain what his supervisor could do for him. Even House had his limits—not that the cantankerous doctor would ever admit to such a thing.

"Didn't say you did. The funny thing is, I have this tendency to hire doctors with brains in their heads, your current behavior notwithstanding. And if I were to ask one of these doctors for a differential diagnosis on a patient whose major symptom is his ability to move things around and break them without touching them in this day and age, well what do you think they might say?"

"I've read the journals. Mutants manifest at puberty. I'm almost 30." But his words weren't all that convincing, even to himself.

"Please, you'd get carded if you tried to buy a rum ball," House scoffed. "And didn't dear ol' dad tell you that just because something hasn't happened before doesn't mean it won't? I'm still holding out for Angelina Jolie."

House paused for a moment, then added in a decidedly more civil tone, "Did you run the test?"

Chase shuffled his feet, looking every inch the guilty Catholic schoolboy. "I can't run it here."

"Because we actually have a sequencer and that's throwing you?"

"Because if I come out positive—and don't tell me that'll stay secret for very long—do you really think I'll have a job much longer? And that's if I don't get kicked out of the country." Chase couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I'm not stupid."

House stared at him for a long moment, but Chase refused to look away. He hadn't put up with so much shit just to throw away his career because his parents—or their genetic codes, at the very least—had once more fucked him over.

"You're not entirely stupid."

It was, Chase thought, the closest House would ever get to a compliment.

"But you underestimate my own super powers," House admonished, as he rose from the exam table and began rummaging through a set of drawers. "Making a measly DNA test magically disappear—not even a challenge."

The Chief of Diagnostic Medicine continued with his search before finally withdrawing a DNA kit from a cabinet. Chase watched warily as House advanced upon him, swab in hand.

"Be a good boy and open up, or I'll have to use the same trick I did to get Cameron's HIV test and that will really set all of the nurse's tongues wagging."

Chase couldn't help but open his mouth to protest—Cameron had fumed aloud about House's tactics to get her to cough up a sample—and promptly found it filled with a swab.

"You're less of a challenge than she was," House said, shaking his head in disappointment as he sealed the swab in a specimen bag and dropped it in his pocket. "Learn to play hard to get or people might get the impression you're easy."

Chase dropped his head in his hands and wondered if he'd just made the biggest mistake in his life.

"Cover the rest of my shift—I'll tell Nurse Ratchett that Exam 1 is open for business, which ought to keep the scaly and annoying off my back," House told him, leaning on his cane. "I'll get you your results as soon as I can. In the meantime, I'd stay away from anything breakable—or learn something cool _and_ useful, like how to switch red lights to green on U.S. 1."

"I'm a dead man," Chase muttered under his breath as he lifted his head and watched House leave. He likely would've indulged in some major self pity had the exam door not re-opened 3 minutes later and a very harried-looking mother carrying a distraught toddler been ushered in. The next few hours were loaded with patients and offered no opportunity to think at all.

_To be continued_


	9. Chapter 9

**Part 8**

"I need a consult."

House hadn't bothered knocking before barging into James Wilson's office, and the oncology chief didn't look the least bit surprised. House was pleased, however, that Wilson didn't have a patient in with him for a change.

"You told me this morning your schedule was clear and you were devoting yourself to world domination," Wilson said, putting aside the folder he'd been reading.

"Everybody lies," House told him before plopping himself down in the seat in front of Wilson's desk and stretching his leg out. "And this one just arrived downstairs in the clinic. You might say he floated something by me that caught my attention."

"You actually saw him?"

"Cuddy sentenced me to hard labor in the clinic for hijacking Chase's medical records."

"Ah! And you think this patient has cancer?"

"Nope," House answered breezily.

"Did the oncology plaque on the door throw you?"

"The 'Chief' part didn't. Actually, I'm here to give you the golden opportunity to resprout your ethics wings after, shall we say, a less than GRACEful screw-up way back when."

Wilson's eyes narrowed, but House didn't feel the least bit penitent. Wilson should have known his affair with Grace would come back to haunt him—House had never been above blackmail where a patient was concerned. "You need a consult because you need to tell me something, no, you want me to _do_ something that _you_ can't get away with. The last time you did this, I ended up in a mess with the organ transplant team, Vogler canned my ass, and nearly canned yours."

"Ah, but we are here and he is not, thus demonstrating the fallacy of your argument," House offered reasonably as he stretched his leg out and reached into his pocket for his Vicodin.

Wilson took a deep breath, appearing momentarily indecisive, but House knew he'd cave. "Fine. I'm consulting. What is it that I'm going to regret in the morning?"

"That lab tech you've been sniffing around…and a DNA test that I need you to run."

"A DNA test?" Wilson asked, clearly perplexed. "That you can't run yourself?"

"Nobody's going to question you if you go near the sequencer…hell, you got away with scanning Cuddy's building blocks without so much as a rap on the knuckles from Mother Superior," House told him before popping a pill. "Last time I ran an unauthorized test—which, for the record, saved a kid's life—I got stuck with a bill for $3,500."

"I lost a lot of money on that bet."

"That's what you get for doubting the master."

"And why is it the master needs me to run an unauthorized DNA scan? You in for higher stakes this time?"

House fidgeted for a moment as he contemplated the best way to handle the situation, drawing a surprised look from Wilson.

"Let's say, for consult's sake"—he watched Wilson nod his acknowledgment of the hypothetical—"that we have a patient whose symptoms would pretty definitively indicate that he got lucky in the genetic lottery and landed the X-gene."

Wilson stared at him. "Define symptoms."

"He yanked my Game Boy across Exam 1—just as I was about to get to the next level mind you—without laying a hand on it. Then he spun it around the air a couple of times to show off."

"You saw this?" Wilson asked, incredulous. "You actually saw a psychokinetic at work?"

"Have you not been paying attention?"

"I'm a little confused," Wilson admitted. "This sounds like a no-brainer. Why not just do the test yourself to confirm it? Problem with the parents?"

"Definitely has problems with his parents," House confirmed. "But that's not the issue—our patient is way past the legal drinking age, but first started moving things without benefit of contact a couple of months ago after the world shared its own collective hangover."

"Okay," Wilson acknowledged slowly, nodding his head. "Certainly different, which makes the test an even smarter move. And the insurance company won't even balk if you call it a genetic screening." He paused. "Though a positive result..."

"…might not have such a happy ending," House concluded. "Moneygrubbers won't even recognize the fact that mutants statistically have better immune systems and are more likely to cost them less cash."

"If the journals are right, they won't have much choice within a couple of decades," Wilson mused aloud. "Money conquers all."

House smiled. "Better be careful. If all of my cynicism rubs off on you I won't have any left to torture my posse with."

"Too late for that." Wilson paused for a moment, before adding, "but an insurance problem's never stopped you before. Still doesn't explain why you want me to sneak this by Cuddy."

"Our patient is a doctor at this hospital."

Wilson sat up abruptly, and House could almost hear the alarm bells going off in his head. "You think Cuddy would fire a guy just because he's a mutant?"

"Cuddy hasn't fired me yet, no way she fires a guy because some gene decided to get a facelift," House observed with a snort. "But Cuddy isn't 'The Board,' and the vast majority of human beings are not as enlightened as say, yours truly, and aren't renowned for their rationality. If people were rational, we wouldn't get half our business at the hospital and you and I would have to take pay cuts. Thankfully, most of the beings that occupy this planet are incredibly stupid."

"You think we'd drum up an excuse to get rid of this…patient?"

"And here I thought you were ready to join me in the ranks above the Irrationals."

Wilson appeared to chew on that for a minute before finally nodding. House wasn't surprised. They'd both learned wariness when it came to hospital dealings the hard way. "You have the sample?"

House removed the sealed test kit from his pocket and handed it over to the oncologist.

"Do I get a name?" Wilson asked as he accepted the kit.

"Do you really want one?"

Wilson was silent for a minute, then slowly shook his head. "I'll do it as soon as I can."

"My patient will grovel in thanks before you," House told him, reluctant to get caught in an act of gratitude.

"My way of evening out the karma of the universe," Wilson replied with just a little self-satisfaction. House knew he wouldn't be able to hold Grace over Wilson's head anymore, but it was the sort of Faustian bargain House couldn't help but approve of.

"You can tell our patient that he doesn't have any markers for cancer," Wilson told House four days later as he held out an envelope marked confidential. "_But_ there _was_ a chromosomal abnormality he might want to check with a genetics counselor. Why his symptoms started now? Not really my area."

"I'll let him know," House acknowledged as he accepted the results, recognizing Wilson's words for what they were.

"And you can tell him I practiced my underused—and seriously unappreciated—espionage skills and left no paper trail."

"Sure, just change your last name to Bond," House replied sarcastically. "You have the women thing down pat, though 007 didn't end up in divorce court as much. And the car needs work, too."

"You're the one who likes living on the edge," Wilson told him with a smile before turning to leave. "I have a department meeting. Let me know if you need anything else."

House, who'd opened the envelope and was perusing its contents, barely acknowledged Wilson's departure. Once he'd absorbed all the nitty gritty details of the report, he set it on his desk, swung his chair to face his computer, and pulled out the duplicate he'd made of Chase's medical file as a back-up—and a set of films he'd recently acquired from neurology. Chase's results hadn't surprised him and, to House's way of thinking, the test had been a mere formality. But why the Aussie had manifested so late in life was a puzzle that House was enjoying.

Twenty minutes later, feeling very self-satisfied, House pulled up several articles from the _Journal of Medical Genetics_ and _Human Mutation_ by doctors Jean Grey and Henry McCoy. He'd begun researching the best referral for his fellow right after he'd conned Wilson into using the sequencer. Having Chase around would be doubly fun now, House thought as he dialed Columbia Presbyterian's genetics program, but replacing glass windows every time Chase got annoyed could get both tiresome and expensive. And House had no doubt that it would be his own paycheck that would take the beating if Cuddy ever found out.

_To be continued_


	10. Chapter 10

_**Note:** Apologies to those who tried to leave anonymous reviews--I had no idea that option was turned off on my system. It's since been turned off. Thanks to all for the kind feedback so far._

**Part 9**

"You paged me?" Chase asked, eyeing his boss warily. House had been studiously ignoring him since their conversation in the clinic, and he wondered if the other man had managed to keep his promise. Being paged out of the blue was undoubtedly a cause for concern.

"We've got film. Break out the popcorn and tell me what you see," House ordered, gesturing from his seat to an MRI scan set up on his office's light board.

"We have a patient?" Chase thought that unlikely given the absence of his two colleagues.

"Do you see a patient? The third-floor guys love delusions," House told him as he took out his Vicodin bottle. "Why don't we stick with what's actually here. Come on, I promise this will be fun."

Chase answered him only with a dirty look, then examined the item in question. "Brain scan," Chase ventured slowly, taking his time. Oddly, he discovered the patient's name and the record date had been blacked out. "Adolescent."

"Even that moron Bornstein in neurology could tell me I was looking at a teenager," House admonished. "Don't settle for the moon, reach for the stars."

Chase ran a hand through his hair in frustration, wondering if this was yet one more test he was being set up to fail. Determined not to give House the satisfaction, he renewed his study of the film.

"There's a small…something—looks like scar tissue—on the parietal lobe, near the occipital," he said after a few minutes, pointing to a small speck on the MRI.

"That's what it looks like," House said rather agreeably, but did not elaborate further.

"Some sort of head trauma?" Chase inquired. He still couldn't figure out why he was in the office and Foreman wasn't.

"Taken post-concussion," House replied. "Sports injury. Patient had no symptoms, but mommy and daddy were feeling a little overanxious and decided to get proof that junior wasn't damaged for life. If they only knew." House was in apparent good humor as he moved to place two new scans on the light board. Chase frowned. A happy House was often a dangerous House.

"Moving right along, what do you make of these two?" House asked.

The ID info on both scans had also been expunged, reinforcing Chase's belief that House was playing some sort of game. The first film was of the conventional MRI type that Chase usually dealt with and showed an adult brain with what looked to be a minor concussion. But the second…

"An fMRI?" Chase asked, interested. Unlike a conventional MRI scan that showed pathological changes, a Functional MRI scan was used to measure neural activity—most often in research studies. Chase had only seen such films in medical journals, though Foreman had told him that the hospital's neurology department had been running a study that used the technique.

"I'm no neurologist, but half the brain looks like it's in overdrive." Chase looked up at House. "Come to think of it, why _isn't_ a neurologist here right now?"

"Patient in question doesn't seem to have a lot of trust in Foreman."

Chase frowned, wondering if Foreman had managed to piss off yet another person in the clinic. But he set that thought aside when something about House's words struck him.

"Patient, as in one person?"

"Three for the price of one," House quipped as he arranged the films in order on the light box."

"That's not possible," Chase protested as he looked at the films again and wondered if House had finally cracked. "The teen one shows scarring, the adult scans don't. That sort of thing doesn't go away with age."

"Well, now you're only saying that because it never has. But if the right circumstances came along, well, now who can tell?"

"The right circumstances?" Chase's disbelief was evident.

"Like, say, a weird brain-searing pulse thing right out of _Star Trek? _Doctors use pulses to blow things out of the body all the time. Maybe one hits just the right axon, which fries just the right scar tissue and poof!"

"You actually believe that? You didn't bring Foreman and Cameron in here because, what, you thought _I'd_ buy this crazy theory?"

"Proof's in the picture." House said matter-of-factly. "And I didn't page Wynken and Blynken because there's one other little fact I left out."

Used to his boss's penchant for theatrics, Chase remained silent while gesturing for him to continue. House pushed off the wall he'd been leaning against and came to stand in front of the light box.

"This is _your_ brain." House pointed majestically to the first film, then moved on to the second set of images. "This is _your_ brain after 5/22. Any questions?"

For a moment Chase couldn't breathe, let alone get any words out. He just stood there staring at the MRIs without making a sound, letting the obvious meaning of House's demonstration wash over him. He hadn't wanted to admit it to himself, but if he were being truthful, he'd have been surprised if the results had been different. Just one more thing he had to thank his parents for, one more blow from an Almighty who seemed to relish kicking him around. For a second he wanted it to all go away, willing the light box to extinguish the damning proof, only to add fuel to the fire when the switch turned off by itself and the machine went dark.

"The test was positive." It was a statement, not a question. And he didn't bother to clarify any further because he knew House would understand.

The diagnostics chief merely nodded when Chase's eyes flicked in his direction for a moment before returning to the now darkened light box.

"They never told me they took an fMRI." Another statement.

"_They_ didn't know," House informed him. "MRI that day was restricted to critical patients and only the chief neurologist could authorize one. Someone tipped Bornstein about your EEG results. He thinks that brainwave study of his is going to net him a trip to Stockholm. Your gray cells were just too hard to pass up; he stuck you in the machine himself while the rest of us practiced real medicine on all the sick people up here. Too bad for him that some overeager clerk called up here to find out whether the order to send the film to neuro was an error—and that someone sent an anonymous memo about his blatant trampling of patient rights and misuse of hospital property to Cuddy."

That last observation might have earned a faint smile from Chase at any other time, but at that moment his mind was too preoccupied with the ramifications of what he'd learned.

"I was 13." He'd been thirteen, with parents who were barely speaking to each other and a mother who'd already begun to slowly but steadily drink herself to death. "When I woke up in the hospital they told me I'd collided with a friend at a rugby match—didn't recall a thing. I remember my father telling me the scans showed I was fine, but then he put me through the ringer anyway."

And four months later his dad had walked out. Chase wondered if his father had spotted the abnormality—if the bastard had kept yet one more thing from him in the hopes he might not consider it a big deal. It was just one more reminder that his dad hadn't known him at all.

"Only thing the scarring seems to have downsized was your coolness quotient for the past 16 years," House quipped as he settled into his chair. "But getting back to the fun stuff, your X-gene probably did pop on, but whatever it is that controls your mutation was disrupted, so no mind tricks until something on 5/22 caused the scar tissue to do a disappearing act. All of a sudden, your brain sensed new hardware that hadn't been installed and decided to reboot, causing the EEG results that are going to land Bornstein in purgatory for the immediate future. An fMRI—way more expensive than a DNA scan."

"Glad to be of service." But Chase sounded anything but happy.

"Your sincerity is overwhelming. Go home."

That brought Chase out his emotional funk and he whipped around his head to look at his boss, unable to keep the hurt surprise off his face.

"You get a 24-hour pass to meditate on the unfairness of the universe, your lowly place in it, how mom and dad made your life miserable, and my utter benevolence."

"I can do my job," Chase replied defensively.

"Uh, uh, uh," House warned, wagging his finger as if he were scolding a two-year-old. "You and depressed go together with patients as well as…ulcers and perforations." Chase flinched inwardly as he remembered the Kayla debacle, when the news of his father's death had led to a patient's demise. "And I have no intention of re-igniting Foreman's drive for world domination. There is but one lord of this manor and I am he. And I say, get lost." House tossed an envelope at a startled Chase, who stopped it mid-air before reaching for it with the caution an explosive expert might treat a bomb.

"Show-off," House said as Chase opened the envelope and found an address, telephone number, driving directions, and a few clips from medical journals and newspapers.

He looked up, perplexed.

"After you're done sobbing about the unfairness of defying the laws of physics, you are going to consult this weekend with one of the country's top genetics experts, who requested my esteemed assistance after he saw that moronic _Time_ article," House informed him. "Or that's what Cuddy will be waxing enthusiastic about should she nose around. In actuality, he can't wait to see an adult-onset mutant and give you the short-course on how not to break my things without touching them."

Chase raised an eyebrow, but remained silent. He'd never really known what sort of help he'd expected to come from House. Asking his boss for assistance after admitting an exploitable flaw wasn't often the prudent course of action.

"Dr. Henry McCoy, unlike yours truly, gets to spend his summer avoiding the masses with the ridiculous rich in some Westchester mansion—I know you'll fit right in," House continued. "Though you'll have to tell your latest dominatrix you're busy this weekend."

Chase refused to dignify that last comment with a response, asking only, "That's it?"

"In proper gratitude, your lord demands as tribute that you fulfill his clinic hours next week," House proclaimed gleefully. "Now get out and start wallowing. Clock is ticking and some of us have residents to torture."

Feeling emotionally upended, Chase wasn't entirely sure how to take his cantankerous boss's sudden indulgence in kindness. His mother had often done the same thing the few times she'd managed to sober up, and those lulls in the storm had always ended with him as a wreck.

Still, he murmured a "Thanks" as he moved to leave the room.

"Oh, and the next broken window comes out of your paycheck," House shouted to him as he headed into the hallway. Numb as he was, Chase smiled. At least some things hadn't changed.

_To be continued_


	11. Chapter 11

**_Note_:** _Ok. I think I finally got the hang of adding rules. Sorry for the mushed together text before this._

**Part 10**

Chase endured an emotionally tumultuous twenty-four hours following his meeting with House. That he was a mutant was indisputable, but what he felt about that wasn't as easily categorized. He spent most of Thursday holed up in his apartment alternating between anger at his parents for their genes—and at their not being around for him to accuse—and fear that he'd be discovered and lose his job. Just the thought of the latter made him so nauseous he could barely eat, and so anxious he couldn't stop pacing the small confines of his living room. When even a violin session failed to calm his nerves, he finally sought refuge in the local cathedral and heard Mass for the first time in nearly a decade. If he didn't exactly get the answers he was looking for, he did find the stability and familiarity of it all relaxing. He was even tempted to go to Confession, but couldn't bring himself to enter the confessional. He could only imagine a priest's reaction to "and I might have cheated a casino out of $92,000 when I inadvertently used mutant powers I didn't know I had to fix a craps game."

He returned home feeling slightly less unbalanced, but still didn't sleep well.

* * *

Friday dawned more promising. He'd called the number House had given him and discovered he'd actually be spending the weekend at a private school for the gifted—more in the genetic sense than any other. The drive to the Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters in Salem Center, Westchester was easy enough, and the estate Chase pulled into resembled one belonging to his grandparents, though somewhat less foreboding. As he drove along the long road that led up from the property's main gate, he saw a group of children playing on lush green lawns, got a glimpse of a rather picturesque lake and boathouse, and spotted a couple riding horses in the direction of what looked to be a stable. He arrived at his final destination only a few minutes after clearing the estate's wrought iron gates. The immense ivy-covered mansion that lay ahead of him was clearly old, though obviously well cared for. The leaded glass windows, the detailed masonry, the perfectly manicured flowerbeds—the whole place screamed Old Money in a way that someone who'd grown up in such surroundings could easily recognize. It felt strangely familiar, and even if he'd never particularly cared about the trappings of wealth, Chase felt rather at ease. He turned from the main road into the circular drive in front of the building and parked his car. A gum-chewing teenage girl with a rather obvious penchant for yellow was waiting for him as he emerged from his Toyota.

"Man, Dazzler's gonna be useless for the entire weekend after she sees you," she said with a frown after taking a moment to look him over. Chase had zero idea who Dazzler was, but when he'd spoken to Charles Xavier, the headmaster, on the phone, he'd been told to dress "as if you'll be communing with a good number of teenagers over the weekend." He'd complied with jeans and a T-shirt. "You don't look like a doctor."

"Got the stethoscope and everything," he answered with a smile, used to similar reactions to his age. "I'm Robert Chase and I'm here to see-"

"-Hank. Yeah, I know," she said, rolling her eyes before blowing a large bubble. "I'm Jubilee. Come on. You can get your stuff later."

She ushered him into a large foyer and told him to "stay put while I get the professor" before disappearing through a door. That was the day's last moment of normality.

All at once he was Alice through the looking glass. Or maybe just one of those blokes caught in the _Twilight Zone_. In a span of merely 10 minutes he watched a young girl walk _through_ the front door; saw what appeared to be a walking corpse trudge down a hall with a guitar; and encountered a shy, lavender-colored elf who'd disappeared (literally) when she caught sight of him.

_All_ _that's missing is a white rabbit_ Chase thought as Jubilee returned to usher him into a rather formal office, where an elderly but otherwise unremarkable looking man in a wheelchair awaited him.

_I'm afraid we have no rabbits_ said an amused and decidedly British voice in his head, rendering Chase speechless in both mind and body.

"We had to outlaw personal pets or risk turning the mansion into Noah's Ark," the same voice spoke, though this time Chase had definitely heard the words with his ears.

"Welcome, Dr. Chase, " the man continued, as he gestured for Chase to sit. Jubilee, apparently satisfied she'd done her duty, left the room, closing the door behind her. " I'm Professor Charles Xavier, the school's headmaster. I believe we spoke on the phone yesterday. My apologies for the delay, but Dr. McCoy ended up on a conference call and asked me to settle you in. Would you like some tea?"

Chase stared at him in open-mouthed surprise, wondering if he was losing his mind.

"I would judge you quite sane," Xavier said with a smile. "And I daresay the school might resemble something of Wonderland, although it's actually rather tame right now as many of the children are still out on summer break. Classes don't start for another two weeks."

"How did you…" Chase stopped mid-sentence as a rather unpalatable idea occurred to him. "You read minds?"

"I'm a telepath, a mutant like yourself," Xavier acknowledged. "Though I promise you I'm not reading anything you aren't unintentionally broadcasting—I'm aware the mansion can be a bit overwhelming to those unused to its…unique atmosphere. I assure you that I would not scan you mentally without your permission anymore than you would use your gift to juggle the furniture in this room. "

"I'd be more worried about exploding light bulbs," Chase muttered, somewhat flustered as he finally took a seat opposite his host.

Xavier chuckled as he poured out two cups of tea and offered one to Chase. "We've had our fair share of accidents over the years. A broken light bulb, I'm afraid, wouldn't even crack the top ten. One student blew out the entire conservatory wall, another froze the swimming pool, and we've had to replace all of the windows at least twice. The first telekinetic I ever encountered did, in fact, accidentally destroy a vase during a lesson. "

"You know another telekinetic?" Chase asked, somewhat reassured by the fact that there were others with his…gift out there. He'd done some research and there wasn't much out there on his particular mutation.

"Unfortunately, Jean—Dr. Jean Grey—passed away on 5/22," Xavier told him, his expression turning somber. Chase frowned—he knew that name from the journal articles House had given him. Dr. Grey had been an up-and-coming geneticist of some renown, but there'd been no mention of her being a mutant. That she'd kept it a secret didn't surprise Chase; and made him doubly sure he wouldn't be telling anyone his own genetic status anytime soon.

"She was both a telepath and a telekinetic," Xavier continued, a smile forming on his face at what Chase could only assume was a happier memory. "And the first time she tried to move a sofa across a room, it ended up embedded in the wall instead."

"Haven't even tried anything like that," Chase admitted. In truth, the idea had never occurred to him.

"I expect you've had other things on your mind," Xavier said. "If the process of manifestation is turbulent for a teenager, I would expect it to be no less so for an adult. Probably more. Teens are usually more able to 'go with the flow,' as it were. Although I must say you're coping quite well. I've had potential teachers flee before even stepping foot in my office."

Chase smiled, wondering if his 10 minutes in the hallway had been some sort of test—or an odd introduction to the wonderful world of mutants. Looking back on the previous 36 hours, he supposed he hadn't done too badly. But then critical care specialists who couldn't adjust to the uncertainty and the quick-change conditions that came with the territory didn't last long. And he'd learned to live under less-than-ideal conditions for much longer than he'd been a doctor. "I deal with the unexpected a lot."

"Yes, Henry—Dr. McCoy—told me something about your work, and your employer," Xavier said. "He was quite amused by the phone call he received from Dr. House."

Chase couldn't keep a look of surprise off his face. "Amusing is not usually the word people use to describe my boss."

"I believe the exact word Henry used was 'refreshing,' but then Henry often maintains a rather unique view of the world," Xavier observed.

"So does Dr. House."

* * *

It was more than an hour after his arrival that Chase finally found himself face-to-face with Henry McCoy in a cluttered, but clearly state-of-the-art lab in the school's basement.

"Delighted to meet you, Dr. Chase Dr. House told me a good deal about you."

Even after several hours of acclimation to "mutant high," the fact that McCoy was huge, blue and furry threw Chase for a loop. But discovering the geneticist resembled a large version of one of the pediatric playroom's stuffed animals—albeit one with claws, fangs, and spectacles—caused Chase a good deal less anxiety than the revelation that House had talked about him.

"He did?" he squeaked out as he shook the doctor's proffered hand.

"Most assuredly. I think it quite safe to venture that he thinks rather highly of your abilities."

Chase's eyebrows would've hit the ceiling had they been able to climb that far. House and compliments (especially any aimed at himself) were a combination that just didn't compute.

"And I daresay he enjoys a good puzzle as much as I do," McCoy added, seemingly amused at his reaction. But then Chase supposed McCoy, as an obvious mutant, didn't often receive a polite greeting in most non-mutant circles. All at once, Chase felt happy—and guilty for it—that his mutation hadn't been of the physical variety. "And one cannot help but respect a physician who can reference both _Star Trek_ and Bud Minton in his journal articles. Most refreshing reading."

"I'll be sure to tell him."

"Please do," McCoy told him affably. "And perhaps we might be able to confirm his theory as to the rather unique nature of your manifestation. I must admit to more than a good deal of curiosity about that situation myself."

"You and me both," Chase admitted.

"Dr. House sent me your files, but if we're to determine the exact nature of your mutation and how you can best control it, a few tests are in order."

"I figured as much," Chase said.

"Excellent, then shall we begin?"

"You're the expert. What do you need?"

It turned out that McCoy needed quite a bit. In the hours that followed, Chase was poked, prodded, scanned, and asked to recall every time he'd used or suspected he'd used his mutation. Then came a number of practical exercises that required the use of his newfound abilities in a number of ways. He'd peeled an orange without touching it, maneuvered around a lab while blindfolded without bumping into a thing, and levitated and manipulated a host of objects. They might have worked deep into the night if he hadn't almost passed out while lifting a series of ever-increasing weights with his mind. McCoy muttered something about "increased metabolic rates, psionic calorie expenditures, and hypoglycemia," and then shoved a pack of Twinkies into his hand and had him wash them down with some orange juice.

"I grant you that they leave something to be desired in the nutritional scheme of things, but one should never underestimate the power of a Twinkie," McCoy told him in good humor as he consumed more than a few of the snack cakes himself. "Though I fear we're setting a bad example by eating dessert before dinner. Of course, I won't tell the students if you don't."

"No problem," Chase replied, bewildered if less shaky.

"That said, I think an adjournment is in order," McCoy said, rising from his seat. "It may not feel quite as adrenaline-pumping as aerobic activity or have the resulting physical benefits, but exercising a psionic mutation can indeed consume a good number of calories and can feel just as draining, especially if you don't use it regularly. You might think about monitoring your blood sugar off and on for the next few months and adjust your diet accordingly."

Chase nodded. He probably had been eating a bit more over the last few months, but hadn't noticed it because hospital fellows tended to eat and run, and he hadn't gained an ounce.

"Now, if you're sufficiently recovered, I'd be remiss if I prevented you from sampling our cook's marvelous cuisine and we're a trifle late for dinner. A school we may be, but you'll find the food a great deal better than usual hospital cafeteria bland."

"I think cardboard would beat our cafeteria," Chase said with a grin, as he felt the sugar he'd consumed rushing through his bloodstream. "Though I'm not sure you'll beat the Twinkies."

"Dr. Chase, I think we're going to get along splendidly."

_And stay tuned for the finale._


	12. Chapter 12

**Part 11**

"You are an alpha-level telekinetic."

After 48 hours at the school, Chase had been summoned to Charles Xavier's office, where he found the headmaster and Henry McCoy waiting for him with the results of all his tests. It was a sign of how acclimated he'd become to both the mansion and the idea of his mutancy, that Chase's only response to Xavier's pronouncement was, "Okay. And that means what?"

"It's a pity that we haven't come up with a better classification system for mutants as of yet," McCoy said slowly. Chase thought he looked like a doctor trying to figure out the best way to break bad news. The realization caused a mild flutter in his stomach. "But right now, we categorize them essentially by the amount of havoc they can wreak."

"In essence," Xavier added, "it means that you have the potential to break a good deal more than light bulbs."

Chase paled; the last thing he needed to deal with was an even bigger accident than House's window had been. "How much more?"

"Well, I think you can understand why we might be a bit reluctant to test your actual destructive capability," Xavier told him with a smile that was clearly meant to be reassuring. Chase was anything but, his uneasiness only growing as his mouth suddenly went dry. "And it would be a good deal more useful to focus on the more positive aspects of your gift."

"Most definitely," McCoy agreed. "You've already experienced some of the pluses. Your spatial awareness is now far beyond the human norm, you apparently have some sort of psionic system that allows you to sense matter much in the same way a bat uses echolocation to navigate, and you can clearly levitate and manipulate objects with your mind that you'd never be able to lift with your body. And I cannot help but be envious of a doctor who can sense a broken bone without so much as an X-ray."

"I'm sure my patients will be thrilled," Chase muttered as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, wondering just what it was they were hiding behind their way-too-upbeat prognosis. He took a deep breath as he considered how dangerous he must be for them to be giving him the sort of positive spin one gave to patients facing a host of lousy procedures, to keep their spirits up. He wanted answers, not pep talks. He shivered at the idea that he might accidentally hurt a patient. And just thinking about what a peer review board would say about a diagnosis made using his mutation caused his stomach to churn; envy sure as hell wouldn't describe it.

"On an especially positive note, your manifestation in adulthood appears to have given you a degree of control not possessed by most mutants when they're starting out," McCoy added, refusing to abandon his sunny outlook. "You already have the small-scale cerebral dexterity that took another telekinetic years to learn. If I foresee any difficulties, it would likely be more for large-scale operations. As an adult, you'd have more of an issue in believing they were possible and though mutancy may be in one's genes, it is ultimately the mind that matters."

"Henry is correct," the professor told him. "Granted you've had a few…hiccups, but we firmly believe that some of those issues were due more to a combination of stress and lack of awareness than any inherent lack of control. Even with the exhausting battery of tests you've undergone here, you haven't committed any major errors. That bodes well for the future because we're admittedly moving in uncharted territory."

"What do you mean uncharted?" Chase asked. "You told me Dr. Grey was a telekinetic."

"Jean was a telekinetic, but also a telepath," Hank explained. "It wasn't until just shortly before her death that she truly began to exhibit large-scale control of her mutation and we remain unsure whether the combination of her gifts had any affect on her range. Frankly, telekinesis is an exceedingly rare mutation, and you are, in point of fact, the first pure telekinetic that I've ever encountered. What we think you may actually be capable of is admittedly based on supposition, but it is vital that you understand how to handle the unexpected. And of course there is the joy in merely discovering one's boundaries. Chance favors the prepared mind."

"Great." Chase took refuge in sarcasm as he tried to sort through everything he'd been told. "So we already know I can move things around and that I'll save money on my electric bill now that I don't really need light to get around. Just how much more 'prepared' can I be?"

"Flight would not be out of the question."

"Yeah, and I can walk on water, too," he said sarcastically, refusing to take the professor's comment at face value, if only to preserve his own sanity. His heart was now racing in tune with his anxiety, but his brain wasn't entirely convinced by everything Xavier and McCoy were telling him. One didn't work as long as he had for House without developing a healthy respect for skepticism.

McCoy, however, didn't take the jab in the spirit intended. "That would make for a most interesting experiment. Though given the surface tension issues, you might have to develop a bit more mental stamina in order to stroll the surface of the lake, perhaps--"

"--perhaps we should give the good doctor some time to assimilate everything we've told him," Xavier interrupted, and Chase wondered if the telepath had sensed his growing unease. He'd gotten some answers but they didn't bring much peace of mind. The walls of Xavier's office seemed to be closing in on him, his heart was racing, and his lungs just couldn't seem to get enough air in them.

"Yes, yes, of course," McCoy acknowledged. "I'm afraid I do tend to get ahead of myself in matters scientific. Take all the time you need."

"I think I'll get some air," Chase told the two men. He needed a lot of it.

* * *

"Hallo."

Chase had retreated from the professor's office to the dock overlooking the estate's lake, and been contemplating his universe there for more than an hour. When he looked up, he thanked heaven that he'd already met the owner behind the greeting. If he hadn't, he might very well have ended up in the water. Talking blue devils—even cheerful ones that wore crucifixes—weren't standard in Wonderland. But at dinner the previous evening he'd had quite the chat with Kurt Wagner on topics ranging from the circus to St. Thomas Aquinas's _Summa Theologiae_. The furry German had been delighted with his knowledge of the latter. Chase had been amused that the man who'd probably have graced a wanted poster back during the Church's medieval days—and even in the present day, if he were being honest—was a devout Catholic.

"Hi."

Wagner, taking Chase's acknowledgment for an invitation, plopped down beside him. "It is a good place to think, _ja_?"

"Not quite the ocean, but it's not bad," Chase answered, shifting his gaze to the water, almost mesmerized by the ripples in the lake. The anxiety that had overtaken him in Xavier's office had shifted to an almost energy-sapping depression. He didn't really feel in the mood for conversation, but couldn't bring himself to brush off Wagner either.

"You grew up near an ocean?" Wagner's tail moved up and down enthusiastically. "I have only seen it a few times up close. It is beautiful, when the sun sets and the moon is over the water. "

"Hard for you, I expect, to see it in daylight," Chase remarked absently.

Wagner shrugged. "I prefer the darkness, easier for me to see. Hank says my eyes were not made for bright light."

Roused by professional interest, Chase looked up and studied Wagner's burning yellow eyes. "I suppose not, though it'd be hell on a doctor if you ever got a concussion—no pupils to check."

"Lucky then that I have a hard head, no?"

Chase chuckled, but didn't speak.

"So what, if I may ask, were you thinking about, Dr. Chase?"

Chase smiled, but there was little humor in it. "Of shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax; of cabbages, and kings."

He watched in amusement as Wagner's eyes went wide as he tried to process that.

"It's just a poem," Chase told him, shaking his head listlessly. "From _Alice through the Looking Glass_. Not really supposed to make sense—or it never did to me. Had to read the whole bloody book in secondary school, but I never thought I'd live it."

"Ah," Wagner nodded. "Off with her head!"—Chase chuckled as he watched Wagner expertly mime the famous scene—"I saw the Disney movie with some of the little ones. No swords, though. You think you are as mad as the…eh…hatter?"

"I could pour his tea without picking up the kettle," Chase said without much humor, turning back to face the water. "They told me I might be able to fly, too."

"_Wunderbahr_," Wagner exclaimed. "That would be amazing, to soar through the air. On the trapeze you only get so long. And when I teleport, poof…it's over."

"Sounds adventurous when you put it that way."

"Life should be an adventure."

"I think I've had enough adventure for one lifetime. "

"I think half the girls in the mansion don't think you're too old," Wagner observed with a laugh. "God doesn't want life to be boring."

"He's got an interesting way of showing it."

"I saw the American TV show here in the mansion," Wagner said after a moment. "There was this woman—her son was also a doctor like you—and she told him that a person's talents are their gifts from God, what they do with them is their gift to Him. And who doesn't like getting presents, _ja_? Some people say it's a test, some people say it's an opportunity. My mother said I could sit in the tent doing nothing, or I could travel with _der Jahrmakt_ and make lots of people smile. Smiling is good. You can do many things with your gift, no?"

Chase nodded, remembering Domingo Pasquarello. The cold feeling of dread that had lodged in his stomach in Xavier's office died down for a minute, only to stir up once more as he also remembered all the other times in his life when he'd done everything possible to get a positive outcome only to be screwed over by life again. "There are times when that's not enough," he finally said. "Or it feels like that anyway."

"Many things I do not know," Wagner admitted. "But I do know _der Guter Gott_, he does not give tests you cannot pass. If you have faith in this, it's not so hard, _ja_?

And there it was—fear versus faith. Chase had always flunked that test. And he'd raged at God, and his father, and who knew who else. He still thought his father deserved the anger, but as he looked out over the water, he wondered if maybe he'd been wrong about the other stuff. It wasn't as if he'd been able to shake his sense of belief no matter how many times he'd tried. Maybe Wagner was right. And maybe McCoy was right about the mind being all that mattered.

Chase stood, a serene expression settling on his face as he slipped off his shoes and walked resolutely to the end of the dock. The sun blazed a trail of light along the water as he looked out upon the lake. He felt the same rush of adrenaline, the same sense of surety he always experienced in the heat of a code, when decisions never seemed as hard as they did everywhere else.

_"Was tun Sie?_"

"A stroll," he answered, turning his head for a moment to smile at Wagner. "You might want to stick around." There was, after all, a place for pragmatism—even among the faithful.

Ignoring the surprised look on Wagner's face, Chase turned back to the water, took a deep breath, and then stepped off the dock and onto the water. His faith proved rock solid…for a minute anyway. The water felt odd—wet but solid. He managed a few steps before the realization that he was actually walking on the surface struck him as too fantastic to believe; it was the sort of miracle that happened to those far more deserving than him. And that realization was probably his undoing, for his concentration wavered and one second later he crashed down into the lake with a giant splash.

Sputtering, he swam up to the surface, feeling more satisfied that he had in ages and headed back to the dock, where an obviously delighted Wagner waited for him Chase actually felt happy.

"One small step for man," Chase joked as he pulled up onto the dock and shook out his hair.

"And one giant leap for your clothes dryer," Wagner responded with a smile.

"Guess my faith needs a bit of work," Chase said as he started to wring out his soaking wet T-shirt.

"And maybe your concentration, _ja_?"

"That too."

* * *

House was lying in wait for him when he arrived at the office early on Monday morning.

"Well, your tie actually matches your pants—maybe you learned something this weekend."

Chase smiled, remembering what Henry McCoy had told him about House. "Maybe I did. Dr. McCoy had some rather interesting things to say about you."

"Of course, he did," House scoffed. "Never let it be said that I'm unmemorable."

"Neither is he."

House raised an eyebrow but didn't take the bait—no doubt he planned to torture Chase for specifics later on. "So I trust I will no longer have to replace any windows."

"Not unless you plan on swiping my medical records again."

"Yes, well I'm sure you'll be thrilled making up my punishment time this week. I have clinic duty in 10 minutes."

"Don't know how I could possibly have missed this place," Chase said with a shake of his head as he poured himself some coffee. He had a feeling he'd need the caffeine.

"I'm touched," House told him. "It's not like they give you the tough cases down there Prince Blondie. The dragons like to torture me but think you walk on water."

Chase nearly choked on his drink. Then, recovering, Chase looked through the Diagnostic department's glass walls to make sure the hallway outside the office was empty.

"They might be right," Chase deadpanned as the door to the lounge swung open on its own and he headed out the door.

He was halfway down the hall when he heard his boss shout behind him, "When you can turn water into wine come talk to me."

Chase shook his head and smiled as he headed towards the elevator. Some things even his mind couldn't change.

_The End_


	13. Chapter 13

**_Note:_ **Though a full epilogue for this story is unlikely as I am, in fact, plotting a sequel (which may take a very long while), the following was written as a small one for a Live Journal Time Stamp Meme challenge, which requested a small summary of what Chase was up to a week after the end of _Mind Over Matter_. Enjoy!

_**MOM: Seven Days Later**_

One week after his return to Princeton-Plainsboro, Robert Chase was feeling a tad more comfortable with the idea of his mutancy, but far less sanguine about his ability to hide his genetic status. Charles Xavier had been right—it had turned out to be a lot easier than he thought to adapt to his "gift.'

When he and Foreman had been ordered to break into their latest patient's home, Chase had to keep himself from mentally opening the door as Foreman took forever to jimmy the lock. And Cameron had shot him a weird look when he'd neatly navigated some very busy corridors without so much as bumping into anyone or anything—despite the fact his attention had been wholly centered on the file he was reading at the time and not on where he was going. He was discovering pretty fast that it was hard to turn off instinct—and he couldn't exactly tell another physician that his diagnosis was wrong because Chase knew the patient didn't have a torn muscle without benefit of a scan.

In short, Chase was feeling a great deal of empathy for Clark Kent. But whereas Superman might have been welcomed with open arms at the _DailyWhatever_ (minus that awful costume), Chase was positive his reception at the hospital would be less generous, no matter how much his mutation improved his ability to diagnose problems. As he walked into the diagnostics lounge for a morning cup of caffeine, Chase made a mental note to consult on the matter with Hank McCoy, who he'd be seeing three weeks later. Chase had committed to spending a weekend each month at the Xavier School for the foreseeable future in order to get a better handle on his mutation. And though Hank couldn't exactly disguise his own mutation, he'd known people who'd flown under the radar.

At least, Chase thought as he set about brewing a fresh pot of coffee, House had been rather mellow the previous week—no doubt the diagnostics chief was smug over his diagnosis of the origin of Chase's newfound powers and their patient's septicemia. Or it was because House was afraid Cuddy would find out that Chase had been doing House's punishment hours in the clinic. Either way, Chase figured he might as well enjoy the vacation before he was back worshipping in Our Lady of Perpetual Doghouse. Even Superman, he thought, might have met his match in House. That image, for whatever reason, amused Chase immensely.


End file.
